Classic.

Dear Math,

I'm in a dark place.

I'm done.

Done for.

I found an entire pork chop between the counter and the stove.

And I ate it.

I chewed each bite one hundred times.

It was covered in cat hair, cheerios, and leaves.

It was once lemon and herb crusted.

Served over steamed brussel sprouts and 27 grain rice pilaf.

I ate it with my hands.

I loosed the ties on my bath robe so as not to restrict my breathing.

I like to take deep breaths in between each bite.

I know I'm full when I can't breathe.

Then I duck taped a disposable camera to the end of a foiled out coat hanger and forced it down my throat like a bulimic lady bug.

Then I lubricated my right hand and shoved it up my own anus like a laxative addicted lama.

Thus, I was able to take a picture of the digesting vintage pork chop.

Several pictures actually.

Now I'm creating a story board.

I'm sprawled out on the floor like a 2ND grader.

Knee deep in crayons and rubber cement.

This is my extra credit Mr. Math department alien porn star bologna person.

This is what I have to do to get an incomplete in the class so that you can dissect me over the summer under your white vegan snow globes.

This is my story.

This is my plight.

This is twenty eight years of could you please repeat the question?!

Could you please excuse my dear aunt sally?!

She's morbidly obese and can't count to five without falling asleep.

Depressing I know.

Well, people are complicated.

If you had read the packet from the government,

Under the column of Math,

It clearly says, Math, above a seventh grade level will be extremely difficult, nearly impossible.

But, you can't find the least common of anything in this wildly creative equation.

So, I guess I'll see you in the summer Math.

I'll bring the sun block.

You bring the human sympathy.

Math.

I don't hate you,

Skin and Toast